We Are Not Alone
by cccahill18
Summary: A five year old Harry Potter realizes after the death of the Dursleys that he is not alone in the world with the discovery of an aunt in Las Vegas, who happens to be one Sara Sidle. Rating for mild violence references. CSIHarryPotter AU
1. PrologueThe Meeting of the Lonely1970

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or CSI. They are not mine, and never will be. If by some random chance I win the lottery and manage to win enough money to buy either or both, I'll let you know.

A/N: Let me apologized before hand for the matter of dates in this story. Yes, yes, I know Sara was born in 1971 and that Lily was born around 1960, but it was important to this fic to have Sara older than both Lily and Petunia (as you shall see), so Sara will still be born in 1971, but Lily will be born 1978 and Petunia in 1975. Just push the important Harry Potter dates forward accordingly. I also know that Sara is a brunette, Petunia is blonde, and Lily is redheaded, but let's just say Sara looks a lot like her mother, Petunia looks like her mother, and Lily looks like her father. Oh, I am still working on all my other stories, but I had to get this off my chest! Thank you to Karla DeVito for making up the song for which the title comes from! Now, on to the fic!

_We Are Not Alone_

Prologue: The Meeting of the Lonely- 1970

It was well past ten when the woman found herself sitting at a stool in Marty's Bar in San Francisco. This was probably going to be her only night of freedom from her husband, John, in the next year. He had gone to Los Angeles that morning for his cousin's wedding, and wouldn't be back until tomorrow afternoon. She might have ended up going with him, but he refused to bring along that "crying piece of crap," as he called their two-year-old son, David, and so she was saved by conveniently forgetting to mention that her mother had the weekend, and thus was made to stay home. As expected, Judith Mason had welcomed the opportunity to babysit her grandson and look over the bed and breakfast that the woman owned with John. Now, she had escaped to the city for one night, to be free of the hits, the punches, even if only for the temporary time she was alone.

When she had first met John, he had been the perfect lover any woman could have wanted. Polite, caring, maybe a bit protective, but in a good way. That was seven years ago, and their relationship had been crashing for the past four, since about six months after their marriage. The first time he had hit her, he had been apologizing left and right, promising never to do it again. But he had lied, and it had just come more and more often. She had thought about leaving, but after she found out she was pregnant with David almost three years ago, the walls just seemed to close in closer and closer.

This night was her chance to break free, to have no restrictions placed upon her. After all, she was just twenty-four, and by no means plain looking. Her long and dark brunette hair was worn down halfway down her back, a habit formed by a preference of John's. Her chocolate eyes perfectly accented her hair and slim figure. She wasn't looking specifically for something to happen tonight, but probably would not stop it if it did.

After she had drained her second martini and was about to order her third, the man sitting next to her, whom she had barely noticed before, spoke up for the first time that night. "Can I buy that for you?" He had a strong British accent, and as she turned her head to look at him, the first thing that struck her was the intense shade of red his hair was.

"Thank you," she said quietly, and the man proceeded to buy her drink. The woman remained silent and in her own thoughts until the bartender returned with her drink, and decided that it would be polite to start a conversation with this man. "I'm Laura Sidle."

"Pete Evans."

Laura woke up to find the cheap motel room she had shared with Pete the night previously deserted except for herself. It was not terribly surprising to her, though. To Laura, it would have been more shocking to wake up to find him still there. Their polite small talk had turned into a long conversation before they had retired to their room, and in it Laura had learned that Pete had been in San Francisco for business, and was engaged to a woman named Rose back in England. He had been having second thoughts about his upcoming marriage, but did not have the courage to say this to the woman who was infatuated with him.

In turn, she had told him all of her troubles, the way John beat her, how she thought that some days she felt like she was being suffocated by the thought that the rest of her life was going to be the same as the past four years. _It was a shame, really,_ she thought as she slowly got out of bed, _that I'm married, and he's engaged._

As she walked over to the bathroom to take a shower before she headed home, Laura noticed a piece of the motel stationery that had been folded in half and left on the room's small desk. She gently lifted it from the imitation-wood surface and read the message:

_Dear Laura,_

_While it has been a pleasure getting to know you, I regret to say that I have to attend my last meeting before I return to Manchester this evening. My time last night with you was a reminder of how it felt when I first mer Rose, and you have given me the incentive to remain positive about my wedding. I sincerely hope that you are able to successfully save your own marriage, for you are indeed a wonderful woman. Perhaps by chance we shall one day meet again, but I do not find it likely, and therefore I bid you farewell._

_Sincerely,_

_Pete Evans_

_PS- Don't worry about paying for the room- I have it covered._

Laura reread the note and tried her best to preserve it in her memory before tearing it to bits and throwing them in the wastebasket. It was far too risky to try and keep. If John ever found it, she seriously did not know if she would survive, and then David would just as well be dead.

Laura looked over at the digital clock on the night stand to the left of the king-size bed. The red digits blinked from 10:07 to 10:08. She only had about five hours until John could be expected home, and she still needed to pick up David and do some work around the house. She sighed, and headed back towards the bathroom.

Two weeks later, Laura found herself in a state of panic as she threw up for the third morning in a row. She had woken up feeling utterly awful, and it did not take long for the cheerios she had forced down to be regurgitated into the toilet. Laura had tried to tell herself that she only had a stomach bug, and that it would soon pass. She was nastily reminded, however, that she felt fine after around nine o'clock, and had only had symptoms identical this at only one time previously in her life . . .

_You have to stop scaring yourself like this, Laura, _she reassured herself as her stomach finished its business and she splashed cold water from the sink on her face. _You have to find out for sure, just to prove yourself wrong._

_This it it, _Laura thought as she locked the door of the bathroom stall. She had managed to go off by herself to the local grocery store during David's nap, and she needed to use her time wisely. As she slowly unwrapped the small package, she could feel the rate of her heart increasing rapidly. _Please, no._

Laura remembered from her first pregnancy how long it seemed to take for the results of the pregnancy test to show, but this time felt like much longer. Besides the fact that she was standing in a relatively unsanitary and vandalized public bathroom, she knew the father, if there was one, was not John. She could never tell him that, but what lie could she tell if need be?

When her results finally did appear, Laura fell back against one of the side walls of the stall. For nearly ten minutes, many of the shoppers in the ladies' bathroom cast curious glances at the stall from which hopeless sobs could be heard.


	2. Just a Night in Vegas 2004

Disclaimer: I own neither CSI nor Harry Potter. This makes me very sad, but alas, this is the way of life.

A/N: I know this update is long in coming, and that _The Edge of the World_ isn't finished to boot, but, well, here's chapter one! Oh, just to let everyone know, this takes place during season four of CSI, after the episode _Butterflied _and before _Bloodlines_. Enjoy! Oh, by the way, many thanks to Samdum the Bouncing Hobbit for beta-ing this chapter for me!

Chapter One: Just a Night in Vegas- 2004

It seemed as if Sara Sidle had only been able to watch twenty minutes at most of a Discovery Science Channel special when she heard the familiar ring of her cell phone. She could feel her frustration growing; she didn't need to look at her caller ID to know who was calling. It was her first night off in over two weeks due to a triple homicide in Henderson.

It wasn't that she had anything better to do; usually she would have worked overtime in a heartbeat. It was just the fact that surviving on a couple hours of sleep everyday was beginning to take its toll. Last night when they had finally cracked the case and organized the last bit of evidence, Sara was more than grateful to have the next night off, unlike some of the poor others like Nick and Greg. Now, it was close to midnight, and after sleeping for far longer than she normally let herself, making herself a package of vegetarian Ramen, and finally settling down into the depths of her sofa for a night of doing absolutely nothing, her phone was ringing. _Did it ever end?_

"Sidle."

"Sara, it's Grissom." _Well, no surprise there._ "We have a family of five dead in their room at the Mirage, and I need your help to process their hotel room."

"What about Nick and Greg? I thought they were working tonight."

"I let them go home about an hour ago. It seemed quiet then, and they both seemed like the only thing on their minds was sleep. I could use a fresh pair of eyes." Sara sighed and closed her eyes. Why her? Why not Catherine or Warrick? She put in more overtime than the rest of the night shift, and yet Grissom chose her to go process a scene tonight.

"Okay, I'll be there as soon as possible, "said Sara, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice.

"Try to hurry. I have a bad feeling the press is going to be all over us with five dead bodies on our hands." Sara slowly shut her phone, and, closing her eyes, leaned her head back on her sofa for about thirty seconds before forcing herself up.

She slowly walked over from her living room to her apartment's small bathroom. It almost killed her to strip down out of her tee shirt and sweatpants. Due to the power of modern technology, even an apartment in the middle of the desert could become cold with air conditioning. However, when she stepped into the almost scalding water in her shower, she immediately lost her regrets about removing her clothes.

As she started to work her shampoo into her hair, she could feel her anger towards her boss running steadily down the drain with the soapy water. That's the way it always seemed to happen with him. Anyone else and she would most likely hold the grudge, but with Gil Grissom she had always felt differently, willingly or not.And in more than that one way, too . . .

Sara huffed out loud, and rinsed her hair harder than was necessary. _You have to stop thinking about him like that . . . it's not healthy, and you know you're not worth the risk to him. He said it himself to Dr. Lurie. You have to stop, Sara. _However much she would have preferred otherwise, it was just as hard to do as time went on, and that in itself proved to be the one thing she could not forgive Gil Grissom for.

Finishing her shower, it didn't take her long to finish getting ready, and as she climbed into her Prius, she thought back to the case that was making her leave her home on her night off. A family of five, Grissom had said. _What a shame. _Even though she had seen more than her share of death in her life, it always made her feel unsettled when it happened, especially in such a tragic way. He hadn't said if it was murder, but it seemed likely, with the deaths limited to one family in the same room, but then again, assumptions could lead to dangerous places. Curiosity filled her with numerous questions, ones she hopefully would be able to work out in the next few

nights, if things went well.

It did not take her long to drive from her apartment to the Strip, and when she came close to the Mirage, she rolled her eyes in frustration. She had forgotten what Grissom had said about the media coming, and now she wished she had really had sped through getting ready. _Damn reporters . . . don't they have anything better to with their lives than spread the misery of the world onto everyone else and make themselves look glamorous in the process? If they really had any idea about the lives and deaths of some of these victims, then they might have a bit more sympathy. They really have no idea . . ._

March 15, 1984

The thing she remembered most about That Night (because in her mind it had always seemed important enough to be capitalized) was how quiet it was afterwards. There were no guests That Night, but that wasn't too unusual anymore. For the past few years the visitors to their oceanside bedandbreakfast had been sparse. Her father blamed this on a poor economy and high gas prices keeping people at home, but everyone else knew that people were just going elsewhere. The reason behind that was known, but no one ever talked about it.

Over those past few years, John Sidle's alcoholism had gradually developed into a dark secret which nobody, absolutely nobody, was to admit was scaring away customers. Around the time of That Night, the Sidle family had perhaps an average of ten guests per month at their Sunny Garden Bed and Breakfast. These were the ones who had the misfortune to not be warned by locals ahead of time. After That Night, though, there were never any more visitors to add their noise to the nights.

On That Night, fifteen-year-old David Sidle also became a part of that silence. On most nights, except on the rare occasions that there were guests, David would turn up his stereo at 8:00; not overpoweringly loud, but enough so that you couldn't hear what was going on outside of his room. Some nights, he would just tune in to one of the local stations out of San Francisco, but more often than not it was his own heavy rock albums. Sara was never able to figure out where he had gotten all of them; it seemed like she never heard the same one twice, or maybe that was because the wall between their bedrooms muffled the sound too much. Whatever the case, she had always been grateful for the distraction it gave her, her own security blanket of Led Zeppelin and AC/DC. Her brother, however, did not turn on his stereo at all on That Night.

The one element, though, that was the underlying cause of the rest, was the most noticeable. The night had begun with its usual procession of noise which Sara always had observed from up in her room. Water running in the sink while her mother did dishes, the television blaring the commentary of a basketball game from the living room, and then the angry cries and screams that usually followed when her parents went into their bedroom. And then . . . they changed. They had switched, her mother and her father.

Their home was frozen in this state, it seemed, for Sara, at least, until morning. No one moved, no one spoke out. Nothingness choked the air, and while twelve-year-old Sara lay awake under the covers, her body and mind were also cursed into the immobility that had consumed them all.

--+--+--+--+--

"Sara, there's a free place to park right near the building in the rear," said Captain Jim Brass, who had made his way up to Sara's car while her mind had been elsewhere. She focused her mind back onto the present matter and turned to Brass.

"Thanks, I owe you one. Any luck with finding witnesses?"

"There were people on both sides of their room and across the hall, but no one heard anything. I'm still trying to get lucky with passerby around the exact TOD."

"Five people were murdered and no one heard anything? Seems strange."

"Hey, not part of the job description. Call me when you find something. Grissom's already at the scene. Room 217." With a good luck and a wave, Sara left Brass and drove around the large expanse of the hotel and into a back parking lot. She smiled slightly when she saw that there was indeed a spot reserved, just as Brass had said. Not wanting to leave Grissom waiting on a high profile case, she grabbed her kit from the backseat and began to make her way up to the hotel. It wasn't her first case at the Mirage, and she knew fairly well where she was going. When Sara arrived at the entrance to the room, the cop by the door smiled and lifted the tape for her to go under. With a quick thanks, she stooped and made her way in.

With the number of different cases Sara had witnessed through her years as a CSI, she thought she would have learned one of the important rules as an investigator, andthat is to never make assumptions. She had expected blood, overturned furniture, the smell of gunpowder in the air, but not what she did, in fact, see. The body of a man, perhaps in his mid-thirties, lay sprawled out on the carpet between the two double beds, which might not have been too unusual if it hadn't been for the expression of surprise across his face. Her eyes moved up to the bed closest to the windows. A woman, roughly the same age as the man on the floor, lay with her eyes shut, her arms still around two young children. One, an infant (and a girl, by the looks of the pink onesie), looked only to be peacefully sleeping, while the preschool-age boy had his face pressed against the bosom of the woman, his thumb still in his mouth.

"Good timing." Sara jumped slightly at the sound of Grissom's welcome. He was crouched down on the floor between the wall and the bed, examining something past her sight. She walked a few paces forward, and saw what she thought to be the fifth victim. It was a girl, six or seven at the most, whose long, dirty blonde hair fell over the ratty teddy bear now only held loosely in her arms. Her legs were folded up against her chest, and her entire body leaned up on the bed as if to make herself seem smaller. Her eyes were shut, as if she had been dreading what had come. Sara finally looked away from the bodies and at her boss.

"What do we know?"

"They were found about an hour and a half ago. A call came in to room service at 8:00. It was brought down at 8:20, and as no one had answered the door, the employee left their order by the door. An hour later, he came back to see if they were done, found the trays untouched, and knocked again. He did this a few more times, and then called management. Calls were made to the room, and weren't answered. Finally, around eleven, security got a keycard, and opened the room up. They were found like this." His voice was quiet and only half there, as if his mind was trying to process everything around him.

"Has he been questioned yet?"

"I gave his name to Brass just now. He should be taking his account soon." Grissom's eyes darted away from Sara and back over to the girl on the floor. Shivers went up Sara's spine, but she couldn't place why they had come.

"Were the bodies moved?"

"Management and the paramedics say they didn't touch them other than to take a pulse."

"ID?" Sara asked, trying to get the last of the obvious questions out of the way.

"The Bones family from Birmingham, England; apparently, on a family vacation." Sara raised her eyebrows.

"This is going to end up messy, then, with the international factor."

"The sooner we take care of this, the better," Grissom replied. "The man is 33-year-old Edgar Bones, according to the hotel records, and his 32-year-old wife, Isadora. The children are Laurel, six; Malcolm, four; and Elyse, six months." He continued to look away from Sara and at the children. Grissom was far from the type of person to become emotionally connected with victims, and yet Sara thought she heard a hint of emotion in his voice.

"Anything probative?" Sara asked while pulling on a pair of gloves from her kit, now laying open on the floor.

Grissom gave a small shrug. "Fingerprints, but in a hotel room . . . we'll just have to try to eliminate the family and staff. Slow, but that's all we can do. You can start with Edgar." He paused, and then said, "Catherine should be here soon to help us out; she had to drop off Lindsey at her sister's house."

"I thought with such a high-profile case, everyone would be here."

"Warrick just left for vacation. I thought I'd give Nick and Greg a few hours before I brought them in." Sara nodded, the explanation satisfactory, and walked back over to the middle of the room. As she looked over the body of the late Edgar Bones, she could only guess as to what the COD could be. _Poison? Suffocation? Whatever it was, it was quick . . . _

Looking over the body, there was nothing immediately suspicious. He was a clean, healthy looking man, though she could notice one or two grey hairs peeking out of his scalp. Her eyes followed the course of his body downward, nothing standing out.

_Wait . . ._ Sara leaned down closer to the man's right pocket. After she quickly removed her camera from its case and snapped a picture, Sara carefully pulled on the object in the pocket. Taking another picture now that it was free, she then tried to observe her discovery. What had once been a slender and finely polished piece of wood was uncleanly snapped in two, and was just barely connected. Around one of the halves was rolled a small piece of old, thick paper. Parchment, Sara guessed. Using two pairs of forceps as to cause as little damage to the paper, she slowly unrolled it. There, in formal, black lettering, was, in Sara's mind, a chillingly clear message

"Grissom, I think I found something. Our killer left behind a note." He popped his head up to face her.

"Are you sure it's from the killer?"

"Come her and take a look." In a few seconds, Grissom came over to kneel next to Sara.

"_An eye for an eye_," he read aloud. "Someone had a grudge." He thought for a moment, and then added, "Check Isadora's pockets."

Taking the step over to the bed, Sara saw the lump in the right pocket. Trying not to disturb Malcolm's body, she removed a similar piece of wood, also broken. This one, however, was darker, and only slightly longer. An identical piece of parchment, though, was present.

"What does it say?"

"_What goes around, comes around_," Sara read. "Looks like the same handwriting. I just wish I knew the significance of the broken wood."

"The Bones 'broke' something of theirs, most likely, and now things have come full circle. Though what they did break will have to wait until we find out-" Grissom's thoughts on the wood were interrupted by the entrance of another person into the room. Catherine Willows, who was in fact the sort of person to be slightly annoyed at being called in back to work on her night off, looked even more irritated than usual as she ducked under the tape.

"We're out." Grissom looked slightly confused.

"What do you mean 'we're out?' We've only just begun processing."

"The Feds just arrived, and said that they're having their own look at this."

"We've outdone the Feds one time too many to be pushed aside like this! I knew that they'd come in, but they should at least work _with_ us," said Sara, openly upset about being let go so soon.

"You don't think I tried telling them that?" Catherine replied. "They wouldn't hear a word of it. Said the case was too high profile. They're be up in five minutes, and they want us gone by then." Grissom, though obviously not pleased, gathered his equipment and put them back into the case from whence he had only a little while ago taken them. Sara sat brooding for a moment, and finally got up to join her boss when one of his questioning glances came her way. Leaving the evidence they had already gathered on the bedside table, they made their way out in three minutes instead of five, exiting the room, which was as still and eerily discomforting as they had found it.

The three Vegas CSIs had almost reached the end of the hallway when they saw the U. S. government forensic investigators exit an elevator. The woman and two men didn'teven glance over at Sara, Grissom, and Catherine as they walked past to get to room 217.

The short elevator ride was filled with shared feelings of annoyance. _Forced from my couch, and when I finally start getting into the case, I'm off to home again. What a wasted night,_ thought Sara as she leaned up against the back wall of the elevator. Their farewells were short and simple when they reached the ground floor, and the three CSIs made their separate ways into the dark and early morning.

Sara's ride home was uneventful, though her mind was elsewhere. Even though she was off the Bones case and would no longer be doing any more work for it, the evidence and scene kept occupying her thoughts. With only the information she had, she tried to piece together a hypothesis for how the homicide had occurred. Due to the notes left behind they at least knew it wasprobably murder. Other than that, Sara remained somewhat puzzled even as she pulled into her parking place.

_Hopefully the Discovery Channel is doing reruns tonight_. Her hopes slightly up, she hurried out into her apartment building. The silence hit her as she walked and made her way to the stairwell. Usually filled with screaming kids when she wanted to sleep, the halls were dead at two in the morning. In only a few minutes she came to the door to her own apartment, 221, and in her eagerness to see if her show was on (and to get out of the suddenly-too-quiet hall), she almost didn't notice a small piece of paper stuck to her door. With her key half-turned in the lock, she removed the paper from the door, which looked to be folded in half.

_I've paid my bills, kept quiet, never made a mess . . . what's this for?_ Sara started to unfold the note when she noticed something that made her freeze for a moment. _Parchment . . . It's the same type of paper from the hotel room . . . _She remained still for a moment, and tried to come to her senses. She was, after all, a scientist. It wasn't that parchment was rare, it just wasn't as commonly used nowadays. _I bet if I looked closely, I would see the differences in the paper . . . someone probably made invitations for a kind of party. _This settled her down a bit, though there still was a voice that remained that said, _who gives out party invitations in the middle of the night?_ Trying to push that thought aside, she finished unlocking her apartment, and quickly came in (not forgetting to lock the door behind her). Turning on the closest light, she slowly unfolded the paper.

_Dear Ms. Sidle, _it began_, I regret to inform you that there has been a family crisis that I would very much prefer to discuss with you in person. I had been informed that this was your night off and that you would most likely be home and awake. However, I found that this was not so, and I would like to try again_****_to meet with you as soon as possible. Please meet me at ten tomorrow morning in your lobby, and all will be explained. Sincerely, Albus Dumbledore. _

It was several minutes before Sara stopped staring at the note with a look of confusion fixed on her face and a feeling dread spreading slowly through her body.

A/N: Well, there's chapter one! Hopefully updates will be quicker! Oh, by the way, there were three little "Easter eggs," so to speak, in here . . . basically, three little things relating to something else. One was to the classics, one was to horror, and the other was to mysteries. Let's see if anyone can find them!


	3. Meanwhile in Little Whinging

Disclaimer: Still don't own CSI or Harry Potter. I keep wishing really hard, though.

A/N: Sorry it took so long ( I get distracted way too easily, but I always come through in the end . . .no matter how far away that "end" is), but here's chapter two! Thanks for all of the kind reviews! As for my silly little "Easter eggs," they were just that Sara's father died on **March 15 ** (the ides of March, when Julius Caesar was murdered), the hotel room was **217 **(the haunted room from "The Shining," and Sara's apartment number was **221**(the apartment number of Sherlock Holmes's . . .home). I like to throw things like that in there sometimes. None in this chapter, though.

And a little note for those who haven't read "Deathly Hallows" yet . . .read it soon! It's amazing!

Chapter Two: Meanwhile in Little Whinging

For the past half hour, Harry had not moved from his position on the somewhat lumpy sofa. He was also still clutching onto Jasper, a stuffed dog who had seen better days. Arabella Figg had nothing else to give to comfort the poor boy, and she was sure that her now twenty-five year old nephew didn't even remember his dear old friend anymore.

She glanced down at her wristwatch for perhaps the third time in thirty seconds. Dumbledore should have been here by now. With all of the charms he had around the Dursley house, she thought he would have been here sooner. She always got uncomfortable around muggle police.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Figg, but I'm going to have to ask you a few more questions." The officer peering down at her was young looking, as if he had not been an officer for long. She glanced over at Harry, the blank look on his face that conveyed that he did not even register that the police officer was in the Figg residence. She sighed, and looked back up at the young man before her.

"Let's go somewhere more private," she said quietly. Giving Harry's hand a gentle squeeze, she lifted herself from the sofa and led the way down a short hall to the kitchen. She shooed Beesley and Pompey off of two of the kitchen chairs and gestured for the officer to sit down. The old chairs gave quiet creaks as the bodies settled into them.

"How's the boy taking it?"

"As well as can be expected, Officer . . ." She had left her glasses in the parlor, and had to squint at his nametag. "Greene."

"Mr. and Mrs. Dursley were Harry's uncle and aunt, correct?"

"Yes." He looked at her expectantly for a moment, as if waiting for her to continue.

"Well," he said after the silence did not convince the older woman to keep going, "What happened to his parents?"

"They died several years ago." She sifted slightly in her chair.

"I'm very sorry to hear that," said Greene, with a look that made it seem as if he was actually concerned. "Poor kid, he's been through quite some difficult times. Does he have any other relations?" Mrs. Figg thought quickly.

"Not that I am aware of, but I know of several friends of his parents who would be more than willing to take him in. I would keep him myself, if I wasn't getting on in years. I do not believe I could keep up with a six-year-old all the time."

"You knew his parents, then?"

"Yes. Very nice people. It was the least I could do to watch Harry when Petunia was busy."

"It's too bad, he seems like a nice boy." He stood up and pushed his chair back in under the table. "Thank you for your help, Mrs. Figg. I assure you that we will try to find a suitable foster home for Harry."

If Greene had noticed the momentary panic spreading onto her face, he didn't react. "Officer Greene, do you think Harry could just stay with me, at least for a little while? I think the best thing he can use right now is a familiar face." The man gave a small smile.

"All right. A few hours here would probably be good for him."

Arabella smiled in return. _Hopefully I won't need all of that time . . . Dumbledore, please hurry . . ._ She stood up as well, and walked back into the parlor with Greene. Harry remained in the same position as she had left him; not even his eyes had switched their focus.

"Hello, Harry," said the officer, trying to seem as if nothing was wrong. Harry's eyes darted up for a moment, and then returned into drilling stare into nothing, not saying a word. Arabella resumed her place on the sofa, glancing at the clock as she sat down.

"Is there somewhere you have to bed, Ma'am?" said the other officer in the room, a man who seemed to have seen several more years than Officer Greene due to the splotches of grey in what would normally be dark brown hair.

"Um, no, sir, I'm fine, I-" Mrs. Figg never had the opportunity to finish what she was saying, for the simple reason that it would no longer be possible to hold a conversation. Both Officer Greene and his companion with the graying hair, whose name Arabella had never quite caught, seemed to be frozen in place. Their eyes did not budge from where they had last looked, and to her it seemed that they were completely oblivious to the fact that time had continued on without them. Harry, it seemed, was conscious enough of his surroundings to lift his head up with a look of confusion. Whiskers the cat seemed equally confused, walking up to Greene to see if he could figure out why he was so still by sniffing him. Arabella offered a small smile for the boy.

"Don't you worry yourself, Harry. It's just Professor Dumbledore." Harry opened his mouth, as if this bizarre turn of events was reason enough to break his silence, but he was interrupted by the entrance of the man he had just been about to question.

His coming into the room was silent, and one would not have known he was even present if he had not chosen to walk directly in front of the only two conscious beings in the room that weren't cats (for there were many cats . . .). The front door, which had the tendency to squeak whenever it was touched, had also been silent.

"Hello, Harry, Arabella." The professor walked closer over to the sofa, Pompey and a few other cats showing no fear of the man as they played with the gold colored tassels hanging off of a purple robe as they followed. He settled down on the opposite end of the couch from the older woman and the young boy. Pompey immediately made himself comfortable on his lap, and began purring even before Dumbledore began to stroke him. He lifted his eyes from the very content cat and onto Harry, whose young green eyes had followed his every move.

"Harry," began Arabella with a compassionate tone, "This is Professor Dumbledore. He's here to help you." Harry remained quiet, but continued to gaze at the professor.

"Harry! My, has it been a long time. Far too long. I don't believe you remember me, do you?" The effect of Dumbledore's words on Harry seemed almost magical in themselves. His eyes seemed to regain a little bit of their energy, and seemed more focused than empty.

"No, sir, I don't," said Harry quietly, slightly above a whisper. Mrs. Figg smiled up at Dumbledore.

"Hopefully we'll be seeing more of each other in the near future, Harry. Maybe we can be friends?" His blue eyes twinkled in an almost surreal way.

"Am I going to stay with you?" asked Harry in a tone very close to eagerness.

"No, I'm afraid not. That wouldn't be possible right now." He looked slightly disappointed himself as he said it.

"Oh." Harry looked away. Mrs. Figg's face lighted with curiosity, and her eyes eagerly went to Dumbledore, trying to anticipate what he would say next. He, however, said nothing for a moment, and instead pulled a light blue pouch out from somewhere within his robe.

"Harry, Arabella, would either of you care for a lemon drop? I find them rather delicious- I always carry some with me." Harry looked solemnly at Dumbledore for a moment before accepting. Arabella declined, trying not to show her impatience. It was quiet for a few more seconds as both Harry and Dumbledore sucked on their candies.

"Harry," Dumbledore began again, "I know how you must be feeling right now. You're probably frightened, scared. What you should know, though, is that you are going to be all right." If either Harry or Mrs. Figg detected the slightest of falters in his voice at this point, neither of them showed it. "Things may seem difficult at first, but I can promise you it will get better. You'll be going to stay with another aunt of yours living in the United States." At this Mrs. Figg immediately shot up her eyebrows and dropped her jaw ever so slightly. To her knowledge, Lily and James had had no other siblings.

"The United States?" said Harry meekly, obviously not very excited about the fact. "But that's far away, isn't it?"

"Far away is all relative, Harry," said Dumbledore gently. "Your aunt's house may seem far away to your home when compared to Mrs. Figg's house, but when compared to the stars and moon, it isn't that far at all, is it?"

"Maybe, I suppose," said Harry after thinking for a moment, "but do I have to go now?" Mrs. Figg glanced expectantly over to the old professor. Catching her look, he smiled reassuringly.

"You don't have to go anywhere tonight, Harry, or for a few days, for that matter. I'm sure Mrs. Figg would not mind having you stay with her for the time being."

"You're always welcome here. My dearies love you as well, don't you?" she asked of Dusty as she rubbed against Harry's legs. Upon hearing "dearies," though, the elderly cat had immediately ran over to her mistress and began meowing and whining. She was soon followed by a crowd of about ten other cats. "What's wrong, dearies, are you hungry? Do my pretty girls and boys want their dinner?" She suddenly looked up with a start at Harry and Dumbledore

"My, forgive me! The both of you must be nearly famished! Just let me take care of my pretty dears." Without waiting to see whether or not her two visitors were actually hungry or not, Mrs. Figg had trotted off busily to her kitchen, followed by a very furry parade of hungry cats.

"Ah, she's a rare lady," said Dumbledore with a small smile, not really talking directly to the young boy beside him. Loud clangs could be heard coming from the kitchen area as Arabella attempted to avoid the cats underneath her feet.

"Is she nice?" Dumbledore waited until Harry lifted his eyes up from Jasper, whom he had begun to pick the stitching out of. He was met with an understanding smile.

"I am not well acquainted with your Aunt Sara, Harry, but from what I do know she seems to be a kindhearted woman. She is very much unlike her sister Petunia, though." He added after a few seconds, "She's going to be very fond of you." Harry looked unconvinced.

"Aunt Petunia and Aunt Marge didn't seem to be too happy about me." He sounded as if he didn't want to maintain the direct eye contact, but seemed compelled to do so anyway.

Dumbledore's smile faded slightly, and he put his hand reassuringly on Harry's shoulder. "Have some faith, Harry. I believe you'll find you and your aunt have some things in common."

The chance for their conversation to continue was cut short by Mrs. Figg's announcement that her cabbage soup was warm and waiting.

x-X-x-X-x

It wasn't yet 5:30, and Harry had already fallen dead asleep on the same place on the sofa. It had seemed as if he had barely left the kitchen from dinner when he had proved himself unable to keep his eyelids open. Mrs. Figg sighed as she saw his head drop down, and scooped up Kitty from the rocking chair where she too was asleep. She was not happy to oblige, even with Arabella's promises of extra treats for her little dearie later. With the cat gone, she was free to take the worn quilt from the chair and drape it over the sleeping boy.

"Thank goodness he's getting some rest. I was dreading the poor boy would be up for the greater part of the night after what he had to go through today!" She looked over at Dumbledore, who seemed to be closely examining the police, still frozen in place in the parlor.

"What are you going to do with them?" Mrs. Figg had completely forgotten about the other two men in her house, and now could not help but think that whatever Dumbledore was doing, it involved much more than an unblinking stare. Her thoughts were confirmed a moment later, when both of the officers disappeared with a loud "pop." Harry didn't stir from his nestled position on the couch, much to Mrs. Figg's relief.

"There, that's all done. They'll wake up at their respective houses, thinking they spent a busy day at work and fell asleep during the evening news. They won't remember a thing about being here. They may perhaps have some odd dreams concerning cats and lemon drops, but aside from that, they'll be no worse off."

"What about Harry? Surely someone will come looking for him?"

"They'll both believe he died in the crash with the Dursleys. It will be much easier to get him out of the country without the muggles starting an investigation. Better to interfere now than later." He briefly paused, and seemed, to Mrs. Figg, at least, to sink slightly within himself.

"I stopped by the scene of the accident, Arabella. While the Dursleys certainly were not the best guardians, they were far more worthy than the deaths they received. Another car had been reckless, and came speeding towards them. They never had a chance to respond. It hit at the worst possible angle, making it so their vehicle immediately ignited. The bodies were utterly unrecognizable."

"That's awful, Professor. I know we never were on the best of terms, but still . . ." She shook her head sadly. "It won't be difficult, then, to make it look as if poor Harry was with them?"

"Sadly, it won't be." He sat himself down in the now vacant rocking chair, where he was soon after jumped upon by Tibbles, the latest addition to the Figg family of cats. Dumbledore scratched him behind the ears, but Tibbles, unlike Pompey, was silent, leaving the only noise to be Harry's even breathing.

"I see my sleeping draught was successful," said Dumbledore, finally referring back to Mrs. Figg's original comment.

"That would make sense," she replied, nodding her head. She thought to herself for a moment, and then said, unsure of herself, "Will Harry be attending the funeral?" The elderly professor's plaintive stare moved from the cat to the boy.

"I can take him, I won't let him be seen. The day after he will have to go to his aunt."

"Yes. Yes, that would be fine. I just hope Harry will be able to handle it all. He is so young, Albus."

"There is no doubt of that, but I believer that Harry will surprise us all with how he recovers. I have the strongest feelings that the new environment will suit him exceedingly well."

"I do hope so," said Mrs. Figg quietly. "If I may ask, though, who exactly is this aunt? To be honest, I've been wondering about this since you brought it up earlier this evening." She tried to hide the impatience for the answer. As far as she had known, Harry had had no other aunt (or uncle, for that matter) other than Petunia Dursley.

"Until this morning, my dear Arabella, I myself wasn't aware. I received word of their deaths almost instantly after they occurred, and I knew a new relation would have to be found for Harry, and the sooner, the better. I then, by chance, happened to take a look at the School Trees. Usually there would be no need, for when situations like this occur, rare as they are in peaceful times like this, there have always been other relatives willing to take them in without our interference. Harry already is an exception to many circumstances, and this is the same. No immediate living family." Mrs. Figg seemed a bit confused.

"The School Trees?"

"Family trees of the Hogwarts students from the past one hundred years. Many people are not aware of the fact; only headmasters have access to the files, and they generally have the tendency to remain mysteriously hidden when their usage would be less than pure. I thought when I saw the extra drawer appear in my desk, I would take the opportunity to look at Lily Evan's tree, Harry not yet a student." Mrs. Figg's mind briefly wondered why Dumbledore had not mentioned looking in James Potter's tree, but she quickly forgot this observation, regarding it as irrelevant.

"As you can imagine, I was quite surprised to discover that Lily had a second sister. Really a half sister. She shared a father with Lily and Petunia, though their mothers differed. She would be the eldest of the three, though I am quite certain she was not aware of the fact she had two sisters, and the same goes for Lily and Petunia knowing about Sara." Arabella looked doubtful.

"Professor, it just sounds a little seedy to me. Sara's birth does not seem to have been under the best of circumstances, seeing both parties knew nothing of each other! And what of Mr. Evans, didn't he know of the daughter he had back in the States? And what about this Sara herself? What of her nature?"

"Rest assured, Arabella, I did some investigating. While I know myself nothing of what her father truly was aware of, she seems to be of an admirable enough character."

"I can only hope she will be more understanding than Petunia Dursley," said the middle aged woman looking worriedly at the very young boy.

"Well, I suppose I shall go find out now for sure," said Dumbledore, smiling suddenly and pulling the oddest pocketwatch (for lack of a better word) out of his robe. "I had left her a note saying I would meet her in-" He glanced down at the spinning object in the palm of his hand again. "-thirty seconds. So, Arabella, I must bid you, Harry, and your felines farewell for now. Expect me for the funeral. Keep Harry out of the muggles' sight. Oh, and by the way, the cabbage soup was some of the best I've had in many a year. Quite delicious."

With that final compliment and a small popping noise, Dumbledore was gone.


End file.
